‘I’ll answer it,’ said Ruth, feeling slightly more in control.
‘Well? Who was it?’ he asked when she came back.
‘Only the _News on Sunday._ They want to interview you.’
‘Me? That filthy rag? What the hell about?’
Mrs Rottecombe took her time. ‘I think we’d better have some coffee,’ she said and busied herself at the stove with the electric kettle.
‘Well, for goodness’ sake, get on with it. What do they want to interview me about?’
For a moment she hesitated before deciding where to strike. ‘Only about your bringing young men into the house.’
For a moment Harold Rottecombe was left speechless. The word ‘only’ did the damage. Incredulity struggled with fury. Then the dam burst.
‘I didn’t bring the bastard into the house, for Christ’s sake. You did. I’ve never brought any young men to the house. And anyway he isn’t young. He’s fifty if he’s a day. I don’t believe this. I’m not hearing right. I can’t be.’
‘I’m only telling you what the man said. He said ‘young men’. And that’s not all. He also mentioned ‘rent-boys’,’ said Mrs Rottecombe to deepen the crisis. It took the heat off her.
The MP’s eyes bulged in his head. He looked as though he was going to have an apoplectic fit. For once his wife rather hoped he would. It would save a lot of very difficult explanations. Instead the phone in the hall rang again.
‘I’ll get it this time,’ Harold yelled and stormed out of the kitchen. For a moment she heard him telling someone he’d already called a bugger to fuck off and leave him alone. Then she shut the door and poured herself a cup of coffee and planned her next move. Harold was a long time gone. He came back a chastened man.
‘That was Charles,’ he said grimly.
Mrs Rottecombe nodded. ‘I thought it might be. Nothing like calling the Chairman of the Local Party a bugger and telling him to fuck off. And this was such a safe seat.’
The Member of Parliament for Otterton looked at her with loathing. Then he brightened up briefly and fought back. ‘The good news is that your lover boy Battleby’s been charged with assaulting a police officer and is being held in custody pending the more serious charges of possessing obscene material of a paedophile nature, and very possibly arson. Apparently Meldrum Manor was burnt to the ground last night.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Rottecombe coolly. ‘I saw it afterwards. Anyway, that’s not our problem. He’ll probably dry out in prison.’
The phone ran again. Stunned by his wife’s insouciance, Harold let her answer it.
‘_Daily Graphic_ this time,’ she announced when she returned. ‘Wouldn’t say why they wanted to interview you which means they’re on the same track. Someone’s been talking.’
Harold helped himself to another brandy with a shaking hand.
Mrs Rottecombe shook her head wearily. There were times–and this was one of them–when she wondered how a man with so little gumption had done so well as a politician. No wonder the country had gone to the dogs. The phone rang again.
‘For heaven’s sake don’t answer it,’ Harold said.
‘Of course we’ve got to answer it. We can’t be seen to have cut ourselves off from the world. Now just leave this to me,’ she told him. ‘You’ll only make a mess of things by shouting.’
She went back to the phone and Harold hurried through to his study and picked up the extension on his desk.
‘No, I’m afraid he’s still in London,’ he heard her say only to learn that the caller, a reporter from the _Weekly Echo,_ had another source of information, and was she Mrs
